Conflict Resolution
by Laurie-ky
Summary: The Sentinel. Jim/Blair. An undercover operation gives Jim the chance to test Blair's feelings toward him. Written for Moonridge 2009 and Beta'ed by T. Verano. Warning: Jim's actions are a bit dubious, but not exactly non-con.


**Conflict Resolution**

It had started the day I met Ellison -- me wearing a doctor's lab coat I'd, uh, borrowed and him sitting on a gurney with his muscles on display as he slipped his shirt on. I'd backslid on the truth, and mostly babbled at him about knowing what was going on with his out-of-control senses. And I'd handed him my card before skedaddling out of there.

But I'd noticed those muscles, all right. Broad chest, pecs that were _well_ defined, biceps that made me think of the old Hercules show with Steve Reeves that I'd watched as a kid.

Jim Ellison had muscles a guy like me could only envy.

Not that I'm putting myself down, but I've learned to play to my strengths -- and muscular isn't one of them. Flexible? Yes. I can actually do some of the more exotic positions from the Kamasutra. Intelligent? My IQ tests prove I'm a smart cookie. And I think fast on my feet. I have street smarts – hey, for a lot of the neighborhoods I've lived in they're a prerequisite. And you don't start college at sixteen on your own and get through it successfully without having common sense, either.

I'm athletic enough; I'm fast at running and good at jumping, and I love to play basketball and baseball. And I'm pretty easy-going. Some people would say I'm just plain easy; but, hey, I prefer to think that I've just got a healthy libido, being a young guy still. So, all in all, I'm pretty satisfied with being Blair Sandburg. But back at the hospital when I'd dropped my eyes to Mr. Universe's washboard, I'd had a split second of wishing I had muscles like the ones I was eyeballing – and of wanting to touch and stroke those same muscles.

And thus began my great love-hate affair with James Ellison's bod.

Our next encounter added fuel to the fire when I found myself up close and personal with Joe Friday; he did his pissed off cop routine and I found myself lifted up and his strong body pushing me into the wall. I resented him for being able to manhandle me so damn easily… and at the same time I shamelessly enjoyed the invasion of my personal space and being plastered up against him.

Minutes later, it was me who had invaded his personal space – to push his zoned out self down on the asphalt, me lying half on top of him while a garbage truck's wheels rolled past us.

It's a well known fact that a near death experience can jumpstart your sex drive; when I'd bounced up from that hard road and away from Ellison, it was because I'd had a boner that I was afraid the guy couldn't help but notice.

I hadn't wanted those forceful arms and hands of his punching me in the gut or face, after all.

But I soon lost any concern that Jim Ellison would hurt me for any reason. Even on those occasions when I'd find myself once more lifted and pressed back against another wall. And just like the first time he'd done it, I'd feel a roil of emotions -- anger that he could push me around so easily, envy of his stalwart strength, and lust from feeling his firm hands on me and his rock-hard thighs pressing against me.

And I'd have to have been blind not to realize that all the touches to my face, pats on my shoulders, and arms slung around me meant Jim liked me. He really, really liked me. And those sturdy superhero arms of his were also good at comforting – the sensation of him cradling me when I was passing out from eating Golden-laced pizza was the last sane thing I'd felt for days.

And comforting me with his arms wasn't the only way Jim had used his body for my benefit. He had put his own life on the line to save me when I was kidnapped by Lash – that crazy, sick bastard who thought he could become me. Lash – poor damaged little Davy -- carried me, tied up, to the dentist chair in that abandoned warehouse and forced me to swallow a noxious sedative. Jim abused his own body that day in the struggle to stop him from killing me. It was survival of the fittest – and Jim lived and Lash died. And then my partner ignored his own pain to free me and carry me away into the fresh held me and soothed me while I regained control of my body.

Jim wasn't a vain guy. He didn't pump iron to draw admiring glances. He didn't wear clothes that emphasized his build. He didn't sweat and strain at the gym because he was in love with his own looks.

No. Jim Ellison kept his body powerful for the same reason he kept his gun oiled and cleaned. In case he needed a weapon.

But I enjoyed watching him all the same, for example, when he was working out or playing basketball. And there were bonuses to living with him – seeing him stripped to his undershirt when he was hot, watching him come down the stairs with his boxers sliding low on his hips, or catching him coming out of the bathroom in just a towel – and sometimes nude. It was all good. Very, very good. And after I taught him to recognize pheromones, he would look at me knowingly when my endocrine system shouted out to him my admiration of his form. But he never said anything, and I didn't either.

And sometimes the smallest things would spark my envy into white-hot incandescence. Such as him holding up his end of a couch or a cabinet so easily when we helped a neighbor move in, while my muscles screamed in protest and sweat popped out on my forehead. Or the time he stopped me so effortlessly from taking a swing at Brother Marcus' supposed killer. Even him hauling something out of a high cupboard that I couldn't reach without a chair could result in a flare-up, which I would try to stifle.

I spent a lot of time meditating about that envy, because envy is so not good for the soul.

I wasn't sure what it was about Jim's anatomy that had me so fixated. After all, it wasn't like I'd never been around beefed up guys before. I used to spend a lot of time hanging out with Sweet Roy down at his gym, and that place was filled with men with impressive biceps, triceps, and abs.

And I had muscles. I did. They were just lean; they never bulged like Jim's did. I hated to admit it, but I looked… boyish. At least I had chest hair to counterbalance my baby face. But still, I knew damn well I could pass for being years younger then I was. It didn't particularly please me to know that.

To say we were opposites in our body types would be an understatement.

But I believe there is truth to the old saying that opposites attract. And I figured something would happen one day that would shake up the equilibrium that kept us balanced with -- and equidistant – from each other.

* * *

It was Sandburg who came up with the ideal solution. I was being maneuvered into my latest undercover assignment role – former mercenary, for hire as a bodyguard -- and I wasn't going to be able to leave this estate on my own if I got the job.

The intelligence we'd gathered suggested strongly that Mr. Franz Stomps' spacious home was the headquarters for his trade in stolen art and jewelry. The man himself was more than a bit of a recluse – requiring his contacts to come to him. In theory, this would allow someone placed inside the house to eavesdrop on Stomps' conversations and ascertain information about upcoming thefts and the transfer of stolen goods.

But Stomps was paranoid about electrical listening devices and regularly had his staff checked for wires and the rooms swept for bugs.

Which is why Simon had volunteered me for this assignment. And nobody said 'sentinel hearing', but then they didn't have to – after Blair imploded his career there had been a lot of comparing notes among officers in different departments. The conclusion, based on a lot of things _I'd_ let slip over the last few years, was that I did have enhanced senses. It stuck me firmly in the weird category but also smoothed out Blair's joining the force. Cops respect a man who'll back his partner, and Blair – for the most part – had been granted his status as my official partner without being hassled.

The offer to be a detective had had a few more strings to it than we initially thought, though. He couldn't take the exam until he'd completed his academy courses and put in his three years on patrol. But he was semi-permanently assigned to Major Crime and only worked Patrol, as a substitute for beat cops taking sick or vacation time, when he wasn't actively working a case with me. And he didn't mind; he said it would normalize his status and give him common-ground experience with his brothers in blue.

After Blair had learned of my new assignment, he'd suggested to Simon that since he would need to be in touch with me, to act as my guide in case I developed any sensory problems, he could also function as the go-between. He'd decided that the best cover for him would be as a massage therapist who made home visits. That way he would be able to touch me while I boosted my hearing without it seeming out of place. And while I was face down on a portable massage table, my concentration would pass as drifting off under Blair's talented fingers.

Actually, I was guessing about the talented fingers part, because he'd never given me a real massage. Oh, he'd kneaded my neck muscles a few times, but that was all.

And there was another reason I approved of his pretending to be a massage therapist; I was curious to see how I'd feel when his oiled hands were stroking up and down my back or thighs.

Because I was going for a total body massage. And I was looking forward to moving Blair and me one step closer to acting on our mutual long-standing attraction; it would be the silver lining to putting up with being away from him.

Simon had agreed, and Blair's cover had been enhanced by a web page with his picture and false credentials. He'd ordered a shirt with 'Massage Therapist' and his new name on it, and had borrowed a portable massage table from a friend.

Two days later, I was hired to fill a bodyguard position with our suspect. And I had made it clear when my duties were being outlined that I indulged myself two to three times a week with a personal massage. Mr. Stomps agreed to my condition, but had reminded me that my contract with him required me to remain on the premises. I figured it was how he tried to control being double-crossed or being infiltrated by the police. I'd told him no problem; I'd have the massage therapist come to the estate.

My third day there I'd become the fair-haired boy when I'd accompanied my new boss into the city and had dispatched a mugger. Stomps' way of dressing screamed out 'rich man,' and the junkie who'd demanded his watch and wallet hadn't been paying enough attention to his peripheral vision. He hadn't noticed me following, per instructions, far enough behind Stomps to not be directly associated with him but close enough to handle trouble.

Stomps hadn't wanted any police involvement, so I left the mugger sitting dazed in the alley he'd launched himself from. I was pleased; it never hurt for the man in charge to be impressed with your work performance.

The first couple of days I'd heard exactly nothing that could net us Stomps' head on a platter, and he'd had white noise generators and excellent soundproofing guarding his conversations with 'guests.' I'd already spotted the surveillance cameras scattered throughout the house and compound, so I knew I was being observed. Physically roaming around and checking out off-limit rooms wasn't going to be possible.

It was time to bring in my partner.

I didn't contact Blair at first. Instead, I hired a woman to come out to the compound. She handled my body professionally, and while her massage did feel good I complained afterwards to my fellow goons that her hands hadn't been strong enough to really dig into my sore spots.

I made a show of doing a computer search and landed on Blair's website; I phoned him within hearing distance of the other staff and set up an initial appointment -- for the same time that I knew Stomps was meeting with some 'clients.' I arranged my schedule so that I wasn't working during the time of my session.

I'd missed him already and was looking forward to breaking the monotony of guard work with seeing him -- and I wondered what I would feel when it was _his_ hands touching me.

Blair was ushered by one of the other guards into my bedroom. He frowned when he saw the space allotted to the hired help.

"No, man. This won't do. There's no room for my table in here. Isn't there somewhere else – discreet, maybe out of the way somewhere quiet – where I can set up?"

He was wearing a deep red polo shirt with his name on it – Jacob Burg – that tastefully declared he was a massage therapist. He put down what I'd taken to be a huge briefcase, and I realized that it was his table, which was folded up into a carrying case. His other hand held a large bag and I could smell the aromatic oil that was somewhere in its depths.

His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but as usual curly tendrils had already escaped to frame his face. He looked good, and I wanted to pull him to me and run my hands over him.

Blair called it imprinting and wrapped a lot of sentinel and guide blather around the concept. But I didn't care what he called it; I just knew it settled me to grip his solid, compact frame and feel the muscles of his arms, touch his skin, and smooth his hair.

I couldn't wait for my massage, since I could hardly fondle my massage therapist. Not when there were prying eyes and cameras recording my every move.

Stomps really was a paranoid bastard.

Jenkins, large, dark skinned, with a shaved head and tattoos peeking out from under his short-sleeved shirt, decided to add his two cents. "Ellington, remember you take over for me in two hours. I'd bring your boy here to the TV room. If you move the one recliner over, there'd be room for him to set up." Then he walked away after shooting an appraising look at Sandburg.

Blair followed me into the living room and together we set up the table. He asked me about what kind of massages I'd had in the past, and explained what his fees were for different styles. I agreed to pay him one hundred and twenty dollars for a ninety minute Swedish massage with trigger point therapy included. He rummaged in his bag and dug out _my_ extra bed sheets, which he draped over the table, and set out oil.

"I think, Joseph – may I call you Joseph? -- that you'll be very satisfied with my service. If you'd like to undress now and cover yourself with the top sheet while I step out of the room, we'll get started."

He made a point of looking at his watch, then sliding it off and placing it in his drawstring pants.

"Stay put; I'm not shy." And I stripped off my clothes, knowing that the cameras were recording all of this.

Blair busied himself with fiddling with the bottle of oil, but I was looking directly at him as I undressed, laying my clothes meticulously on top of the recliner, and he was shooting covert looks at me, sneakily ogling my body. And a rich, enticing, musky, scent was wafting my way from his vicinity, and it wasn't the massage oil.

I arranged myself face down on the table, not bothering to pull the sheet over me.

Blair stepped over to my side and I felt him cover my legs and butt.

"Leave it off, Chief."

He paused -- a little thrown, I thought, by me calling him 'Chief' and by me not letting him follow the standard practice of draping the parts of the body that the therapist wasn't working on; doing that would have made his touching me more impersonal, more professional.

I didn't want professional or impersonal.

His first tentative touch quickly became surer, and Blair started to give me a running lecture on what he'd obviously researched about massage techniques. I loved feeling his warm, slick hands stroking up and down my back, his fingers pushing into the ridges of my muscles. But I told him to can the talk.

He did, and the noise in that room dropped to the sounds of his hands on my flesh, and his increasingly erratic breathing. The scents of the massage oil and his arousal mingled and smelled heavenly to me.

Maybe it was unfair of me to test Blair like this, but this way he didn't have any room to wiggle away with an excuse that would see him heading out the loft door and me staying behind wondering if I had read him right.

Nope, this was an unscheduled pop quiz, and I was going to pass him with an A plus. And now that my curiosity had been assuaged and I was confident of the next step to take with Blair, I could check in on the powwow that was scheduled to begin soon.

I murmured to Blair the code phrase we'd agreed upon, and I expanded my sense of hearing until I was stopped by the whoosh noise of a white noise generator. But with my partner anchoring me by touch, I could push past the barrier, and despite the soundproofed room, I could hear Stomps greeting his guests and offering them refreshments.

After several minutes of pointless yapping, the conference began in earnest. And I was stunned, because while we had suspected the stolen art and jewelry connection, this guy was also involved with gun running.

Which meant we'd have to bring in the ATF for the raid when the guns were delivered. I doubted that I would be there; Stomps was more of a mastermind guy than a hands-on person. He'd delegate this, but maybe we could get his subordinates to roll over on him once they were facing prison time.

Or… if he had the guns and other stolen items stashed on his property, we could stage a raid here and nab him with the goodies.

The conversation halted after an offer was made for the buyers to examine the merchandise, and I followed them with my sense of hearing, visualizing how the turns they took meshed with my understanding of the layout of the place. The guns were being stored in an underground room with an electronic lock; I heard him punching in the numbers on a keypad. And no doubt cameras were monitoring the area.

The final details of the exchange were worked out, and I now had a date, time, and place to turn over to Blair. But not all the guns were going to be moved out the day of the deal. Quite a few would still remain, and I realized that we could do a double whammy, busting the buyers and Stomps' men at the meet while arresting Stomps himself here, in possession of the rest of the guns and other assorted loot.

And I was figuring that there would only be a skeleton crew left at the house that day, which would make taking over the compound that much easier.

I could set up another appointment with Sandburg, my massage therapist, for that time. Together we could get control of the house and allow Major Crime detectives in to do the mop-up.

Yeah, it was a plan. Now to let Blair in on it; this meet-and-greet was over and the guests were being escorted out of the house.

* * *

Jim stirred, finally, and I guessed that he was finished eavesdropping on the parley going on somewhere in this house. I moved around to the front of the table, where his head was resting on the padded support frame, and began massaging his temples. He started to whisper information he'd gathered, then stopped.

"Follow my lead, Chief. Please," he softly murmured.

He lifted himself up and rolled over on the table, and then shot me a lazy grin.

I felt my groin tingle and I had to make an effort to keep my breathing steady. I didn't know what the hell he was playing at, first being so flagrantly naked in front of me and now giving me a bad-boy, come-hither look.

He stretched and arched his back, which showcased his musculature, and that tingle I was feeling deepened into an ache.

Damn it, he'd gotten me hard and I was stuck in this room.

What the fuck was he doing? We'd danced around our mutual attraction to each other for years and _now_ he wanted to initiate détente? I wasn't sure I wanted to lower my defenses against his charm.

I knew I was gaping, but I couldn't help myself. His cock was filling out, lengthening, and it gave a lazy, interested twitch.

I didn't care what he said; I grabbed the bunched up sheet with shaking hands and deposited it over Mr. Happy.

"Look, kid, finish my massage, and if you give me some extra special attention, there'll be a tip in it for you."

"Uh… I'm a professional therapist; I don't--"

"A hundred bucks if you do me right. Do what I say, understand?" And he said it with that edge of menace Jim can get in his voice, and man, it really cranked my clock. He had said to follow his lead… I nodded my head, words uncharacteristically stuck in my throat.

I worked on his chest, his smooth-as-a-baby's-butt chest, and I daringly played with his nipples. On second thought, I figured he must be acting for the cameras, and who knew if I'd ever be able to touch him like this again. But whatever he might tell me later -- that he'd sacrificed himself to keep his cover -- right here, right now… he was enjoying what my hands were doing to him.

And that part of myself that envied Jim his strength, his build, took a gleeful delight in touching him and reducing him to a puddle of goo. Yeah, they were _his_ muscles, but _I_ could make them roll over and beg.

For me. For my touch.

I stroked, and soothed, and relentlessly smoothed out the small knots I could feel in his arms and shoulders, then returned to his chest and started working my way down to his groin. I lightly grazed my hands over the rucked up sheet that hid his erect dick, causing Jim to suck in his breath involuntarily.

And then I worked on his legs, those long, powerful thighs and calves; I finished up the regular part of the session by massaging his feet and toes, and then I ran my hands back up to his dick. He had left the cloth draped over his crotch, and I slid my hands in under the edge of the smooth fabric and lightly, slowly, moved my index finger up and down his cock, while my other hand cupped his balls.

I glanced at his eyes, trying to get a sense of how far he wanted me to go with this. His eyes drifted down past his belly and he gave a small nod. And threw me a challenging, provocative stare.

"Make me feel good, Chief."

I felt reckless, and like I'd been double-dog-dared to push him right over the edge. And I closed my ears to the voice in my head that was screaming 'boundaries' and 'What the fuck are you doing?'

And I was hard and aching to feel his hands – hell, my hands – on my dick. But I left myself alone, and Jim continued to play the part of a self-centered client who wasn't concerned about what the hired help might be feeling.

I pulled my hands out from under the fabric lying across his groin and dumped a puddle of oil into my right palm. I was horny. And angry that this was one-sided, and mortified to know that our first sexual experience was being broadcast on security cameras, and concerned that if they kept the film that it might fall into the wrong hands, our co-workers' hands, and thrilled that my touch could make James Ellison catch his breath and murmur – yeah, like that, just like that -- when I wrapped my hand around his cock and tightly slid my hand up and down, up and down, till I could see and feel the tension in him gathering to the spilling point.

This was it, then. I was making my partner – the man who had captured me in his gravity field like comets sweep up space debris to trail behind them -- my sentinel, my friend, cross that line into being my lover. Or maybe just my fuck-buddy. Shit, I didn't know what we would end up being to each other.

I darted a look at Jim's face, not really sure if I wanted him to lock eyes with me or not. But his eyes were closed, his lower lip caught between his teeth and his face frozen into a tight expression, and his body – his strong, beautiful body – bowed up from the bed, a deep, guttural sound issuing from his throat.

He was coming, and it was fascinating; man, I'd always been curious about how his senses affected his sexuality, and I thought crazily to myself that here I was doing a participant-observer study even though my name was mud as an anthropologist.

I soothed him through the tremors I could see and feel from the aftershock of his orgasm, keeping my grip firm, trying not to over stimulate his skin and nerve endings.

The sheet had shielded his dick from the camera documenting exactly what it had looked like when he'd exploded, and it was wet with his spunk. I twisted up some of the dry part of the material and used it for a towel and wiped the oil and his load off of my hands.

Jim gave a long, satisfied sigh, and sat up, his legs dangling over the edge of the table. He casually removed the sheet and swiped himself clean. And then snaked out a hand to yank me in front of him when I started to step back.

"You earned that hundred bucks, Chief. C'mere." He opened his legs and tugged me closer to him, his thighs – and, God, they looked and felt like they belonged to Atlas – closing around me.

Holding me captive.

He started to nuzzle my neck, and moved up to outline my ear with his tongue. My dick took a renewed interest in what he was doing, and he reached down his hand and cupped me through my soft cotton pants.

The son-of-a-bitch.

And under the cover of me gasping out loud and making other, uh… sounds, he murmured into my ear the grand scheme for taking down Stomps and the reason why he'd had us put on this little show. I managed to pay attention despite my pudendal nerve sending urgent messages to the pleasure center of my brain.

And the reason for urging me to be his sex therapist instead of his massage therapist? He'd listened to the guards in the security room and had learned I was going to be waylaid on my way out and 'invited' to give a few more massages to interested staff. Jim was going to play the territorial card, and had upped the ante so he could act all possessive of me.

True fact: Jim does not share well with others.

Anyway, it would be better for my cover if I didn't have to demonstrate my ability to give massages. Because I was faking it, pretty much. And what if one of those other guys figured that out? Bye-bye cover and hello trouble.

He ended his briefing by tilting my chin up and kissing me for a long moment on the lips. Then he gave me a little shove away from the table and jumped down, and still naked, he pulled his billfold out of the pants he'd placed on top of the recliner and withdrew some money.

He handed me six twenties, which I transferred to my own wallet. Then with a shit-eating grin, he pulled out a hundred dollar bill, lifted up my shirt, and dropped it down my boxers.

"I always keep a hundred dollar bill handy – in case of emergencies, Chief."

I had to reach into my pants, my fingers grazing my hard-on, to retrieve my tip. And I was so not giving it back when this case was over.

"Very funny, Joseph." Jim always had teased me about my hundred dollar emergency bill.

While my dick was registering a complaint that there was unfinished business to take care of, I packed up my equipment. Jim got dressed, and he casually told me that he liked me and that I could expect to make the trek out here a couple of times a week. I consulted an appointment book I pulled out of my bag, and he gave me the date and time of when he wanted me back – the date of the planned busts here and at the gun exchange location.

He slung his arm around me and said he'd walk me out to my car. But before we'd gotten halfway to the front door, we were intercepted.

"Hold up." That was Jenkins, and he had another big bruiser with him. I sighed and set down my folded-up table. Here we go – show time.

"Ellington, we saw how much you enjoyed getting the kinks out of your muscles. And after watching your boy-toy actually 'doing' you, I think we'll borrow him and order dessert, too."

He licked his lips and looked hungrily at me. He had jailhouse tattoos on his hands -- probably was used to coercing guys to service him. And I'd given him every reason to think I wouldn't mind making some extra bucks with him and the other dude. Jim must have felt they'd have pressured me for sexual favors during a massage even if they hadn't just watched me give Jim a hand-job.

Jenkins took a step closer to me and reached for my hair. "You look good, sweetheart. But I'm not paying you what Ellington did. Fifty bucks is plenty for a little cream puff like you. And that includes your mouth, hand, or ass. I'll let you know later what I want. Sound good to you, Koslov?"

Jim pulled me in tighter against him. And snarled at Jenkins. "Get your own massage therapist. He's mine, now, and I'm a selfish bastard. I don't share. We going to have a problem, Jenkins? You got an objection, Koslov? 'Cause, you know, I haven't kicked anybody's ass for a couple of days, not since Mr. Stomps' mugger. And what exactly have you done for the boss lately? But let's not take this situation to our employer. I ordered this kid first; I'm keeping him. And he's not gonna be touching you clowns. Let me repeat myself; I don't share. I'm funny that way."

Time for me to do my mediation thing. "Man, you were watching us? Jesus, that's just… kinky. And, um… sorry, but I guess I'm taken. And I don't usually do… But listen, I have some friends who do, and I can bring them to the next party. They can take care of you, while I, uh… give Joseph here another massage. But hey, I insist that they get the regular fee. We've got expenses, you know, gas for travel, uniforms," I plucked at my red shirt that told the world I was a real, honest to God massage therapist, "and massage oil, the really good kind, is not cheap. But I'll make sure they understand about the special arrangements. So. Men? Women? And are we talking just you two?"

I looked expectantly at them, and Jim was giving them the patented Ellison death glare; Jenkins backed down.

"Christ, Ellington. Who'd have thought you'd be so damn picky. Yeah, kid. Bring your little friends. I want a twink – young and good-looking. Koslov?"

"A woman."

"You got it. Hey, I need to go; I'm teaching a class on cranial sacral massage later this afternoon. I'll be back in three days. And remember – my buddies get paid the full fee for whatever kind of massage you agree on. Anything extra – you guys can work it out." And I wiggled against Jim, who let me go enough so that I could pick up the massage table.

Koslov and Jenkins made tracks out of there and Jim took the massage table from me. I could have wrestled it back from him, but… what the hell. If Jim wanted to use his muscles to do me a favor – let him.

And I looked over Jim's buff form one last time after he escorted me to my car and slapped the hood to send me back to the station. I could scrutinize his well-made frame now without that little voice from my jealous heart whispering to me about envy. Because I had had dominion over Jim's muscles today. But I'd let him have dominion over mine, too.

Mutual. Balanced. Give and take – take and give.

And as for the lust that I'd ruthlessly choked down over the past years… shit, I was going to spin that dial up to high. Jim had made the first move today, but if he tried to pass what went on between us this afternoon as having been just for the job, then I was going to work like hell at making him see the truth. And I was well known for my ability to be persistent. I had decided I wasn't going to settle for just being Jim's fuck buddy, either. No, sir. I wanted it all. I wanted him -- sentinel, partner, friend, and lover. Not to mention that I was itching for a little bit of payback.

And… man, it felt good to have that old love and hate conflict about Jim's anatomy finally resolved.

* * *

Epilogue

It all went as planned. The joint ATF and Major Crime team busted the illegal gun buyers at a small electronics store that was one of Stomps' legitimate enterprises. Probably used for money laundering also.

And with Blair's little party of massage therapists – himself, Brian Rafe, and Megan Conner – plus my own assistance, we were able to get the drop on the remaining goons and Stomps at his estate without anybody getting hurt. Jenkins was furious that he'd been duped. Funnily enough, his threats to show proof that Sandburg and I had had sex together at the house didn't stand up. No such film was ever found among the countless hours of taped security footage. Making sure of that had given me something to do when it'd been my shift in the camera room.

Of course, Sandburg, the little shit, managed to mutter quite frequently where only I could hear him that _he_ hadn't had any sex while giving me a massage.

And he had quite the aggrieved tone to his voice.

I found myself grinning every time I heard him needling me about it.

Looked like I'd have to rectify that situation as soon as we could leave the station.

After all, fair was fair.

The End.


End file.
